Which hero?
The ones who sold gold and diamond mines
for a fragile, broken, hand mirror?
The ones who ate from the same plate of banga soup and fufu
then traded their own blood for a bottle of Dry Gin?

Or where is the lie?
Is there something I'm missing?
The heroes who meddled in corruption
like it was their forefathers’ legacy?
Well, where is the lie -
not when it transcends generations?

Now, they've kicked you out
of the prosperity and Egypt you helped them build.
Tell me, is the land still green over there?
I'm asking for my unborn kids.

Is the Scramble for Africa over?
Or just sugar-coated
with international relations and diplomacy?
Now that there's no more aid, no more handouts,
tell me, were you your brother’s keeper
when you dipped hands into the money meant for malaria and HIV,
like it was the national cake?

Don’t sell me a narrative with twisted truths.
You've gaslit the masses for so long
that now we’re caught in a Japa and Japada cycle -
a bunch of forward and backward people,
now citizens of the world!
Nomads, right?

And yet, the tides are shifting.
Some have found their way back home,
feet sunk into soil once abandoned.
While others set sail once more - another voyage
seeking new lands, people & sanctuaries
that would embrace them as their own.

But I’m thankful for my generation,
we get to keep the cowries, at least;
making fashion out of our culture.
And yes, to the flock on new age writers
telling our own stories, in our own voices!

I am my own hero.
I stand with the ones who fought for what was worth fighting for.
The ones who died heroes.
Not you.
You only came, saw, and conquered armless citizens in what you called an election
like you were at war - not so free and fair, but the truth is, you were only at war with yourself.

Pass me the kola nut, mbok.